Cole was not military nor ex-military, but he did grown up in Chicago in neighborhoods where is wasn't safe to play in the street, where people didn't sit on their porches at sunset or any other time, where it did matter to every child above the age of five what colors he was wearing and on what street he intended to wear them, where gunfights were heard as a matter of course and knife fights were waiting for you after school, instead of something as domestic and suburban as bullies. Cole grew up in a world where just about every violent situation he encountered resulted in him being alone while pitted against three or more assailants.

 

At age nineteen, he joined the Chrome Horsemen, which he felt was a solid and respected club of men who were tough as they come and just as mean if pushed. Some of those men didn't need to be pushed all that hard either. A good strong exhale might be enough.

 

Cole became an enforcer, then an outrider, and then, five years later, he was placed on the security list. No, he wasn't ex-military and he wasn't trained, but he did have over twenty years of practical experience with close quarters combat against brutal and overwhelming odds. He also had a sharp mind and a vividly clear recall memory.

 

He mentally pictured the men inside as they were when he did his backward somersault performance out of the kill box they had waiting for him. He visualized where each man was and where he was moving his center of gravity – which direction was the man moving toward? At the speed of thought, he encouraged his mind to logically progress the movements. If the man on the right, in the green suit, was stepping forward, which he was, visualize him doing so and visualize where he was now if he didn’t change direction.

 

In a blur of mental speed, less than a half second, he used these estimations to adjust his aim and then fired blind three times into the stationary glass side of the doorway. Then he rolled to his left, came back to a prone position, and fired three more times into the open area of the door, burning black holes through the white curtain.

 

Both attacks were answered with gunfire and shocked screams of pain. Again he rolled, back to his original position, and waited a breath, feeling and listening to the movement inside the room.

 

Cole was sure he wounded two of the men, the one to the left, directly in front of him when he walked through the door and the gunman to the right in the green suit. The first barrage of bullets might, have caught number three, the talker, but Cole counted him as uninjured, armed, and highly pissed off.

 

A body sagged into the stationary glass side of the door. The silhouette displayed through the shear curtain portrayed a bent man who was succumbing to his wounds. Cole aimed at the man's head, hesitated, following his instinct and visualization of the room inside, adjusted his aim, and fired five rounds, adjusting his aim to the right as he fired, spreading his attack horizontally across the room inside.

 

Two rounds blew through the glass and rocketed past, far above his head. A third and fourth were fired, as well, but didn't sunder the glass. Either they went up through the ceiling, down into the hull, or into the back of the room.

 

Without hesitation, Cole adjusted his aim again to the man sliding down the curtain, smearing it with blood and shot him in the head, blowing his body back off the curtain and glass. He didn't want the dying man to clutch that shear fabric shield currently hiding him and yank it down.

 

When the dead man was sent off the door by Cole's last shot, a curse came from inside the room followed by two knee-jerk shots that didn't ripple the curtain or make new holes in the glass.

 

Cole rolled to the left, got up to a crouched position and stalked with a grace belying his size toward the edge of the boat, and the dock it was moored to.

 

Snipers.

Cole thought about that. If there were eyes on him, which Jim stressed there would be, he would have to assume snipers. Well, he would have to assume there were snipers if he wished to live long enough to tell himself later that he was overly paranoid.

 

The gunfight threw enough explosions and lead through the air that someone must have dialed the cops by now.

 

Question: do I want the package?

 

Cole was sure that whoever was left alive in the room behind the curtain was wounded enough that they couldn't follow him while he went over the side of the yacht and then jumped onto the boat across the way in an effort to test the sniper theory. He was sure that was a safe route to take at this moment.

 

He would never know what was in that package if he did that, though.

 

It couldn't be drugs. It wasn't big enough to warrant this attack on him and drugs wouldn't warrant the attack anyway. Chemicals? Bio-tech secrets? Military level explosive components?

 

Two thoughts then stripped all desire to see what was inside. The first, it would likely to be something he had no resources for selling and, thus, useless to him. The second, it was highly probable he wouldn't recognize what the item was when he saw it. A jar of blue goo, for example, could be a lot of fucking things. Fuck that package and fuck the assholes inside.

 

He went over the side of the yacht, faked a step forward, performed a fast retreat back against the boat he just left, and then ran low and fast across the dock to dive over the side of the yacht across from him.

 

Now, he was hidden from view of the shore by the other yacht, the one in front of the one he was on, and safe from anyone deciding to fire some more shots out the back of Prague boy’s yacht he just left. This was a good spot to wonder if it was going to be a lifesaving thing to wait for the cops. He wouldn’t be in too much trouble and he had no tricks to pull against snipers.

 

His phone rang. Seriously? Now?